Page 1 of Stepbrothers

Chapter One

“Fuck, which room is it?” Clarice asked, impatience clawing at her.

“Two, zero, one.”

She gripped the arm of the hunk she’d picked up at Romy’s Bar and tottered along at his side. She was horny. She had an itch that needed scratching. And Scott—or was it Sean?—had given every impression he’d be up for the job.

More than up for it, and he was damn sexy, too.

She studied a numbered plaque then gestured left at the end of the corridor. “That way…Scott.”

“It’s Sean,” he kind of growled. “My name is Sean.”

“Er, yeah, course. Come on, Sean, let’s hit the mini bar.”

He wrapped his thick arm around her waist, practically lifting her off the floor as they skimmed around the corner. “We’ve had enough to drink, there’s more important cravings to satisfy, don’t you think?”

She giggled, enjoying being clamped against his hot, hard body. Through his black cotton shirt she could feel the outline of his torso, and damn, she reckoned she was going to be very impressed when she saw it.

“You come to London often?” she asked. If he was a decent shag maybe they could meet up again.

“Occasionally.” His voice was gruff.

“So when are you next in town?”

They came to a halt outside room two hundred and one. He pulled the key card from a black leather wallet. “Not for a while.”

“Why? You off on holiday?”

“Work.” He opened the door and held it wide with the flat of his palm. His brow was creased, his dark eyes narrowed. He gestured for her to enter.

“What is it you do again?” When she’d asked before he’d been vague.

“I told you, security.”

“Ah yes.” She stepped in, and the moment she’d gone past him, the door shut with a resounding click.

The next thing she knew she was locked up against him. His mouth hit down on hers, and he groaned, seemingly relieved to be giving in to his desires.

Clarice squeezed close. He tasted of the peaty whisky he’d just drunk, and hot, hungry male. A thrill went through her, clenching her belly and dampening her panties—her barista job at Grind ‘n’ Go long forgotten.

“Fuck, you’re a sexy bitch,” he said, kissing over her cheek and at the same time clasping her right breast over her top.

She was breathless, her heart hammering, and she kicked away her stilettoes and then reached for his shirt, dragging it from the waistband of his black jeans with sharp, frantic movements.

“If you want to call a halt…” he murmured, “say so now ’cause I’m nearly at the point of no return.”

She yanked his shirt upward.

“I don’t want to call a halt, and if you stop, I’ll kill you.”

“Huh, you can try.” He stepped back, pulled off his shirt, and cast it into the velvety shadows. He dragged at his belt, snapping it through the buckle.

Fuck! Her gaze dipped down his body. The guy was ripped. She’d hit the jackpot. His shoulders and chest were wide, his biceps bulged, and his abs a brick wall. He had a dark tattoo on his right pec, a simply drawn dagger with a snake coiled around the blade.

“Strip,” he said gruffly and shoved his pants down his legs. His Calvin Klein boxers were also black. “Unless you want your clothes ripped to shreds.”

Clarice didn’t need telling twice. She slid off her electric-blue silk shirt and then shoved at her leather trousers. A wave of frustration went through her when they took longer to remove than she’d hoped.

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